


Don't Turn On The Light

by intentioncraft



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Meg POV, Mentions of hell, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentioncraft/pseuds/intentioncraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg touches each vertebra of Dean’s spine like they’re part of a finely tuned instrument, and then gouges harsh lines across his skin deep enough to draw blood and a thin, wavering sound from his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Turn On The Light

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [tumblr](http://thighholstered.tumblr.com/post/56535707855/she-touches-each-vertebra-of-deans-spine-like). Title is from "Shady" by Adam Lambert.

Meg touches each vertebra of Dean’s spine like they’re part of a finely tuned instrument, and then gouges harsh lines across his skin deep enough to draw blood and a thin, wavering sound from his chest. Dean’s full, bruised and bitten lips hover not an inch above hers; His breath trickles hot past her lips and she smiles when she tastes whiskey and licorice on her tongue.

The tremor in her muscles is blissful, but it keeps her from tightening her grip on his lower half — her thighs are still weak and her skin still humming like a tuning fork from the first, second, and third times he made her come, licking her and sucking on her clit like he’d been starving for her as much as she’s starving for the way he snaps his hips, driving into her and _taking_ , so fucking greedy in spite of his shining soul, his self-righteous human self.

So Meg takes a fistful of his ass instead, pulling him in closer until his pelvic bone is firmly slotted against hers, his cock a perfect, hot width around which her body clenches and bows. A delighted hiss leaking treacherously through her teeth, but Dean gasps, too, like he’s being pushed off a skyscraper. She lunges forward to catch that pitiful sound and swallow it, getting high off the liquid burn as his breath slithers down her throat.

Normally, Meg likes to be the one on top. She likes to be the one looking down and setting the pace in order to make sure she gets off good and often. But with Dean she’ll take it any way he instinctively wants it, anywhere — she’d never lay down or take it from behind from anyone but the so-called Righteous Man. And she loves this — she loves laying on her back open and wet, twining her calves around Dean’s thighs and watching his inevitable break in composure, the grip on that finely-honed Casanova persona slipping as he slips into _her_ , giving way to something far more visceral and needy.

Something far more base and _true_.

Quite to her vexation, her stomach flutters with the thrill of it. After all, this is the famous _Dean Winchester_ , she thinks wryly, a name whispered in dark places by dark, pathetic creatures in fear, awe, when all Meg felt was the burn of contempt and indignation when Alastair took up his knife to carve his famed stories into Dean’s soul, even though Meg felt Dean was barely worth the artistry of Alastair’s lowest ranking demons, never mind the High Inquisitor himself.

Meg felt no vindication whatsoever the first time she looked upon the tattered, feeble light, with the threads of black and red constricting his humanity like vine-choked ruins as he was welcomed into _her_ family, the same family he so often sought to destroy, as he rose to celebrity status under Alastair’s tutelage, like the prodigal son.

It made the tendrils of her own corrupt soul curl in disgust.

Still, Meg thirsts for his unravelling: That smug turn of his lips going limp when she teases his nipple with her teeth, the fever-dull glow in his eyes flaring up radiantly when her fingers play about the sweaty crease of his ass. That rough, _young_ voice bent into all kinds of shapes and monuments of depravity as she taunts him, urges him to go faster, to make her feel him there for hours after as nothing but a hollow ache between her legs.

Willingly, Dean heeds her and moans shakily into her shoulder as his release is wrenched with barely contained violence from his body.

The warm afterglow of a good fuck starts to settle on Meg, full and content in more ways than one, but Dean is continuously thrusting through his orgasm, grinding against her clit until she comes again and sings out his name between a gabbling string of curse words spoken in a grim, forgotten language. This time, Meg needn’t coax him at all: Dean’s only momentum is despair, helplessness, and the decadent anguish of one knowingly walking the twisted road to Hell all over again. She smiles as gently as she can into his exhausted, self-condemnatory kiss, her fingers worming between them to feel the hot dampness of sweat, slick, and come where he’s still buried in her cunt.

It’s all a heavy-handed reminder that in spite of what the angels on high say about Dean’s supposed divinity, he’s still susceptible to the same sloppy urges that Meg celebrates shamelessly. And even though Dean earned the highest praise Alastair could give, he is no better at breaking people into wet shivering pieces than she is.

Dean Winchester may be the Righteous Man, the illustrious saviour of humanity, but Dean Winchester regularly take a demon to bed, lets her strip him of everything from the dime-a-dozen trucker plaid on his back to his annoying abnegation and outward bravado, and he fucking _revels_ in it.

And that, Meg decides, is far more satisfying than the sex itself will ever be.

  



End file.
